That’s a lucky lady awaiting him at home, that’s all I can say. I bet she’s prepared some dinner, got a big smile on her face, and probably has no idea her husband digs for nasal gold on public transportation.

Wait, I bet she knows.

Maybe she just doesn’t care.

Maybe that’s what marriage is. Not caring if your partner pokes around in various orifices in public, provided the holes in question are on their own body and not somebody else’s….

I wonder if he does that in bed. Laying there next to her, flicking his crusty friends off the side. Inevitably, they pile up in the carpet, a carnage of days past. She lies there, next to this, engrossed in episodes of reality tv.

She’s probably not innocent in this either. Any woman who lets her husband think that Tom Clancy can hide his booger fest 2012 probably has quite a few questionable habits lurking on her end of the dining table.

Maybe they do it together. Maybe they were having problems, nearing divorce, and they decided to hit up counseling. Maybe the counselor suggested team-building activities. Sitting up late one night, they got to talking. Ideas flowing, their interest in finding an activity they could share sparked something they’d thought lost.

Yea, I bet they discovered picking their noses together. A secret revolting ritual no one else understands. Maybe he’s going to go home and announce he managed to pull one over on the blonde girl sitting across from him on the train.

He’ll proudly tell the love of his life that the mystery girl across from him had no idea what he was up to. Working like a spy, he managed to unhook the little devil from the depths of his nose from behind Clancy.

A regular 007.

She’ll tell him she got a good one in the cereal aisle of the grocery store. Oh the stories they’ll share, this married couple.

I guess I’ll just let him keep thinking he’s pulling this off. If it’s for love, after all, why bother interrupting. Not to mention I can’t identify a bonus to announcing to someone that you’re aware of their activities. It’s not like I’m the booger police after all.

Now, if he was free-farting, I might have a problem. God help the couple that does that on public transportation for the sanctity of marriage.

I flew from Paris to Manchester yesterday with my boss. We’re staying in Huddersfield, and according to a brochure I found in the hotel lobby, the Dungeon of York promises ghosts.

Ghosts, and potentially zombies.

The ghosts have been lingering around York since 1551 when the putrid plague brought forth pussing boils, rotting corpses, and the lingering scent of all things horrifying. Creatures and items which fall under this category include (but not limited to) ghosts, snakes, witches, bigger ghosts, vampires (the real kind, there will be no mention of that series here dear readers), Lord Voldemort, Hannibal, anyone dedicated to killing in the serial fashion, beets, and of course, zombies.

What better method of zombie creation than a horrendous plague? The bodies are already there, and I don’t imagine zombies hump, so their reproduction must somehow be linked to disease.

Hence, my assumption there is such a thing as the zombies of York.

Also a logical conclusion is that they are lingering just outside this hotel room in the woods across the street. I can practically hear them shuffling through the leaves in search of innocent blood.

Ok, so if it was really innocent they were after, maybe I wouldn’t be their girl. Let’s say-American blood. Yea, I bet those York zombies can’t wait to take a bite out of a Yank. Which would ultimately make me a Yank-York-Zombie, and last time I checked, that’s not on my to-do list.

Also, I’m on the ground floor so they wouldn’t have to climb to find me or anything. They’d basically just have to cross the street (crosswalk provided for their safety), break my window, and create a whole new monster for their clan.

Great.

The York Dungeon evidently also hosts an exhibit on something called the Bloody Vikings. Next to the blurb: “Keep your wits about you as the Vikings go bersek in York-where will you run when the Vikings raid?”, is what looks like a bloody gladiator with a really mean face.

This is not the face you want to sit next to on public transportation, that’s for sure.

Still, he’s far more attractive than the plague-zombies, and I’m guessing if he bashes in my window, I’ll probably have to be some kind of gladiator-slave-wench. If that happens, I hope Hollywood is involved in the costume design because I am going to need some serious hair and makeup maintenance to pull of that look with any kind of dignity.

There is also a labyrinth of shadowy mirrors. I’m not entirely sure what this entails, but it claims to be from the lost Roman legion, and judging by the screaming child in the image, it is either related to murder, or David Bowie invented spandex in the Roman era.

It’s a shame I don’t have time to go to the museum itself to do more research. I’d like to be properly prepared for all of the horrendous horror which may quickly find its way to me today.

There are a lot of gruesome shenanigans that have occurred in York at one time or another. It’s amazing anyone would choose to live here.

Maybe I should purchase binoculars to search f0r the zombies from the treetops.

You know, for anthropological purposes. I wouldn’t want to get too close, but I can hardly pass up the opportunity to go zombie-watching.

Evidently, she roamed all over God’s creation with a supply of Pabst, a friend of hers, and my temperamental time machine.

They also stole a bottle of champagne, but at this point, that is neither here nor there.

She’s been in my ear all morning attempting to explain herself. Twiggy arms flapping in excitement, stomping her tail to provide the occasional soundtrack, miming the actions of what is either an ancient tribal ritual or a story about being trapped in the middle of an Hermes sale (I’m sure I’ll figure it out eventually)-regardless, she’s got a long way to go in describing her whereabouts these past months.

She wore herself out in the middle of a tale about Jose (the buddy of hers I mentioned), and so in an effort to get her to quiet down a bit, I asked her to write you all a note about how this adventure got started in the first place.

As you can see, the handwritten explanations leave much to the imagination.

Just thought you should all know that I have verified the expiration date of her rickshaw license. Early 16th century, though it looks like she could have extended if she hadn’t missed the deadline.

She’s slowly piecing it together for me, but I’m sure I’ve just hit the tip of the iceberg. I’m debating giving her access to my password on here, so if you see an occasional drawing sans explanation, rest assured, it’s Zilla.

The owner of this particular specimen was wagging it around like a helicopter blade whilst screaming profanity. There was an empty bottle of something at his feet, and by the looks of things, he was not leaving the station anytime soon.

I’m a little curious as to why he was so fascinated by his own member, as one would imagine he’s been attached to it since birth. I suppose their connection is his greatest life accomplishment to date, and this is why he felt the need to share it with the world.

Regardless, there it was, wagging around like a sad limp sock attached to a sad limp guy.

As I walked by, it dawned on me that I rarely see the naked bits of ladies down in the underbelly of the city. Once I saw a large woman’s breast when she heaved it out to show me (an action I still cannot explain though this too was related to alcohol), but that’s the only time I’ve ever been flashed by a lady.

Comparatively, quite a few male flashers have crossed my path in various locations around the globe. I’ve seen seen male flashers in the US, the UK, Grenada, Tanzania, Switzerland, and of course-France.

There must be something exciting that flashers get from their dirty deeds. I wonder what it is, and I wonder if it could be replicated by flashing random bits of body normally not associated with sex?

An elbow, for example. If I just started intently staring at people on the metro, holding eye contact whilst my arm slowly curled up to reveal a little piece of bow-candy? I wonder if I’d get a thrill out of it. Maybe a knee pit now and then?

Though I guess people wouldn’t realize it was something they weren’t supposed to see, so I’d probably have to tattoo the words “Do Not Look At Me, I Am An Erotic Elbow” onto it.

Yea, that might work. Or I guess I could tattoo some naughty bits onto my elbow and flash them.

Penises are too mainstream though.

I’m thinking ovaries. Yes, I think if I tattooed ovaries onto my elbow, stared people down on the metro, and flashed them a little ovarian bow, I could probably replicate the feeling accomplished by your run-of-the-mill flasher.

You know, really bring it more into the contemporary art scene.

The tattoo would probably hurt a bit though. Plus there’s the cost. And for what? At the end of the day, I’d just be that girl on line 4, flashing tattooed elbow ovaries at people.

Maybe they’d sell little statues of my elbow in the tourists shops next to the Eiffel Tower pencil sharpeners and baguette pens. Maybe I’d get silkscreened on a few tshirts before Urban Outfitters caught wind, mass-marketed the shirts and sold them to hipsters for 30 seconds until the fad ended-thus erasing my mystic underground image.

Still, there’s always henna…..

A splash of ethnic flare, a hint of cross cultural flashing relations. Western white American meets Indian art in unconventional location, in one of the most artistic cities in the world-and it’s temporary. Flashing continues only as long as the henna-ed ovaries remain on my dedicated-to-the-cause bow.

My flying car (if Hollywood has taught me anything, it’s that the future always contains flying cars) will be yellow and I’ll use it to pick up men.

Alternatively, I could use it to buzz around with my pack of wild, free-range french bulldogs (you know, in case by that point I have no interest in the opposite sex-having outlived all seven of my husbands-mwhahahaha).

Though I suppose it would have to be an SUV version to accomodate myself and the pack…..

Who doesn’t love the image of an old lady in a cape, her imaginary Zilla friend, and a pack of snorting hogdogs buzzing around Paris in 2082?

Oh yes, did I mention, I’ll be living in Paris at that time.

Not a huge stretch really, considering I live here now, but whatever, a lot could happen between then and now.

No wait, a lot will happen by then. Such as:

-My sandwich-chain shop Zilla’s will start in Paris, but then spread rapidly like a global plague, enticing individuals regardless of race, religion, gender, or sexual preference….scents of the delicious snacks will permeate the atmosphere. This will be the reason aliens come to earth, uttering “take me to your deli”, in a trance-like manner.

-Reruns from the nineties will still be playing endlessly on television to numb the brains of children, but they will refer to the shows as “AFTY” (archaic funny from times of yore). They will only speak in abbreviations by this point, as there is simply not enough time to formulate comprehensive sentences.

-Pet goldfish will be a long-lost thing of the past as a result of the great cat-cultural-revolution lasting between 2056-2065. Also, cats will be severely monitored for suspicious behavior and it will take until 2089 for people to discover the UFA (underground feline association) – a terrorist operation spreading miles deep within the belly of the Earth. Fortunately, I will be dead by then, so this doesn’t particularly matter for me, but figured I’d give a heads up.

-Plastic surgery will become known as TYWWLLR (those years when women willingly looked like robots), and anyone carving into their own face to change it completely will be considered an outcast. The switch doesn’t happen until 2038 and is a result of a gas leak, silicon, and something called GYNRYM “grow your own nose, remove your own in minutes-as seen on tv!!”

-Also, I will have my own version of monopoly. As should we all, dear readers, as should we all.

There’s more, but I don’t want to spoil it all for you. Just figured I’d give you a little peak at some of the great things to occur in my 101 years. Something tells me you all have plans of your own…..

Happy Birthday Great Grandma, I’m not sure how you’ve managed to deal with us all for this long, but here you are, 101 years later….

That’s right. After sending me on a wild goose chase that would have given Sam and Frodo a run for their money, Zilla returned this morning.

She’s been snoozing since eight, but I suspect I’ll get an answer as to her whereabouts later this afternoon.

Here’s what I know:

-She’s wearing parachute pants that are neither worn out enough to be vintage, nor from this decade. I suspect foul-play with that busted up time machine of mine. It would also explain the armor on her right arm, which is either from a Gladiator television prop chest, or the real-deal.

-Her passport has stamps from various countries, including a short-stint in Pakistan earlier this year, which I can assure you-I have some questions about….

-She appears to have acquired real-estate, scuba, skydiving, pilot, taxi, and rickshaw licenses. Two of which expired in the late nineties. One of them appears to have expired at some point in the early 16th century, but the bite marks make it hard to tell for certain.

-She has a tattoo indicating a romance has transpired between herself and what appears to be a mythical creature yet to be identified.

-Her backpack has sandwich wrappers from at least five different airports. There is also an unopened bottle of pickles inside.

-I can’t be certain, but I think she’s lost weight.

-Her journal is hard for me to read (those twiggy branch fingers of hers to blame), but it seems she has either won the lottery in the past, is planning to do so in the future, or has drawn up an assassination plan for JJ Abrams.

I’m going to be having long chats with her in the upcoming days to get her stories and find out why on earth she found it acceptable to leave for such an extended period of time. Unacceptable, I assure you.

Regardless, I wanted to let you all know as soon as she got in.

Obviously, we have much to discuss.

I’ll be traveling around to your blogs in the next weeks to catch up on your news.